


fault lines tremble underneath my glass house

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Catharsis, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Spanking, d/s dynamics, mention of collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For the record, I am not doing this because I think that you deserve punishment,” Harold says. He strokes John's thighs, and John pushes back against his hands. John's skin feels hot, and the blows have left a dull throbbing sensation like the embers of a fire. “Do you want me to punish you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	fault lines tremble underneath my glass house

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Morin for kink advice & encouragement. You are lovely <3
> 
> Title from "Earth" by Sleeping at Last.

"Are you comfortable?" Harold asks.

John is tempted to tell him that he's as comfortable as he'll be while naked from the waist down and bent over Harold's lap, but he isn't feeling clever right now. In fact, he feels weirdly, absurdly unsettled: it's not like he's worried about the pain, he's _really_ not. A spanking is like a light tickling sensation compared to the things that interrogators have subjected John to. It probably won't even register as pain. But this: being exposed, naked, spread out in front of Harold, it's sounding a bell in the back of John's head, a gentle alarm. Harold being the one to dole out punishment, as playful and consensual as it is - it's _doing_ something to John.

"Yeah," John says. He doesn't say _I'm fine_ because he tries to make a point of not lying to Harold. John stretches his arms and lets his face rest against a pillow.

Harold is sitting on the bed, still fully dressed with just his sleeves rolled up. His hand comes to rest at the small of John's back, stroking soft circles against his skin. "We don't have to, if you'd rather not."

John tries to force the tension out of his body, which goes about as well as he expected. "I want to," he says. It's true: ever since Harold brought it up, half-jokingly, John couldn't stop thinking about it.

Harold lets his hand trail over John's spine through the fabric of his shirt. John suddenly regrets not taking it off.

Then Harold's hand disappears. "Tell me if you're in any discomfort at all, no matter for which reason," Harold says.

John nods and closes his eyes. The first blow stings a bit, but even so, John can tell that Harold is holding back. He pauses for a moment before the next blow lands, giving John the opportunity to change his mind.

"Keep going," John says. His voice sounds like the words forced themselves out of his throat.

Harold continues, not pausing between strokes this time, establishing a rhythm. It hurts even less than John was expecting, or maybe it's his arousal clouding his perception: John's hard cock is pressed against Harold's thigh, and his ass feels hot and tender where Harold's hand is delivering the strokes in a precise rhythm.

It's easy to get lost in it: he doesn't have to think or plan ahead, and his whole focus shrinks down to the sharp bite and heat that he feels on his exposed skin. It's oddly intimate, John thinks, in a way he can't quite explain.

Harold seems to become more confident: the blows sting a little more by now, vary in angle and impact. It's still a far cry from pain, though.

"Do you think you deserve to be punished?", Harold asks. His voice is very gentle, but there is an edge to it like the glint of steel underwater.

_What kind of question is that_ , John thinks. Of course. "Yes," he says.

Harold's rhythm falters for a split second. "And why is that?", he asks, delivering the next, precise stroke.

John shifts a little, and the friction against his cock is good enough that he can't suppress a groan. "You always say you know everything about me," John says roughly. "Then you know why."

Harold stops with the spanking and puts his hands on John's buttocks instead, kneading the sore skin. John shivers. He feels lightheaded, like he just woke up from a strange dream.

“For the record, I am not doing this because I think that you deserve punishment,” Harold says. He strokes John's thighs, and John pushes back against his hands. John's skin feels hot, and the blows have left a dull throbbing sensation like the embers of a fire. “Do you _want_ me to punish you?”

John exhales. The words are stuck in his windpipe, choking him. “I want you to do whatever you want to me,” he says. It's not quite what he wants to say, but he finds it difficult to think.

“How does it feel to you?” Harold asks. He is still running his hands over John's buttocks, kneading the muscle.

John sighs, rutting his hips against Harold's thigh. “Doesn't really hurt,” John says. His speech sounds slurred. “More like. It brings things into focus, but not in a bad way. It's something I can focus on instead of other things.”

Harold is pushing up John's shirt so he can run his hands all the way down from John's back over his ass and down his thighs. “What other things?” Harold asks.

John _really_ wants to get off, but he will make himself sore rubbing off against Harold's leg, so he decides to hold still. “I hate to go home alone,” John hears himself say. “I hate being away from the library when I know you're there, when you could–“

“Yes, John?” Harold prompts. He is massaging the muscles in John's lower back now, and John sighs in contentment.

“When you could _touch_ me,” John says. If Harold told him to never leave the library again, John would. If Harold tied John to a bed and told him to stay, John wouldn't even ask for how _long._ He would do all kinds of lovely and terrible things if Harold asked him. “Just want you to touch me, all the time.”

“And the spanking is a kind of touch?” Harold says. It's his process, John thinks. He likes to think out loud.

John bites his lip. “It's good because I know you'll take care of me after,” he manages. “You always take care of me.”

Harold seems to consider that. “Tell me what you want, John,” he finally says.

“Keep going,” John says. He swallows roughly. “With the spanking. I want– I want more.”

Harold gives him more. The blows are a sweet hot sting against his skin, and John's arousal is just a distant memory after a while. He relaxes into the feeling and matches his breaths to the rhythm of Harold's strokes. John can feel a tightness in his chest loosening like a ribbon being cut.

He shudders in Harold's lap. “You won't let me hurt anyone, will you,” he says, suddenly, like the words are ripped out of his chest.

John says something else, he thinks, and is making noises that sound like horrible, dry sobs. “'m dangerous,” John mumbles, his face half buried in the pillow. “You can't let me hurt anyone, you've got to keep me in _check_.”

The steady rhythm of the strokes helps, it keeps John tethered to the moment. John feels tears run down his cheeks, dripping onto the pillow. “I do,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I _do_ deserve to be punished. _Harold._ ”

It feels like he was up to his chin in water and is only now managing to crawl onto the shore: it's _painful_ , all that feeling draining out of him, and John sobs until he's exhausted. Harold keeps up the spanking until John has stopped crying and his breaths even out.

John's head hurts, and his cheeks are wet with tears, snot running down his chin. He feels like curling up in a corner and staying there forever.

The blows have stopped, and now it's just Harold's hands on the small of his back, soothing him. “Hush, John,” he says, his voice kind enough that it makes John ache, “I've got you, it's alright.”

John blindly reaches out a hand to grasp for Harold's sleeve, and then Harold's hand is steady on his shoulder. “Come on,” he says, tugging lightly at John's shirt collar.

He helps John settle in again with his head in Harold's lap. John's body is aching with something that isn't pain, his limbs feel like stone. He nuzzles Harold's hand and runs his fingers over the soft fabric of Harold's waistcoat, clinging to his shirt. John feels vulnerable, exposed, like someone reached inside of him and turned him inside out.

“You help people,” Harold says gently. He runs his hands through John's hair, petting his head. “You don't need me to control you, John. You don't need a collar and a leash to make sure you don't go rogue.”

John shudders under his hands. Harold strokes his neck. “Unless you _want_ me to put a collar and a leash on you, that is,” Harold says, sounding wryly amused.

John makes a weak noise. He doesn't know if Harold can hear the small, tentative _“yes”_ that comes out of his mouth, so he nods his head for good measure. His erection wilted during the second spanking, but he can feel himself getting hard again instantly.

John straightens up and climbs into Harold's lap with one knee on each side of his thigh, then he lets himself sink into Harold's arms. Harold kisses John's forehead, wipes the tears from his face with his thumbs. The coarse wool of Harold's pants rubs against the naked skin of John's buttocks.

Harold hums a little and closes a hand around John's cock, and John lets his head rest against Harold's shoulder and thrusts into Harold's grip. Harold knows exactly how John likes to be touched, speed and angle the little twist with his thumb that makes John a little bit crazy. It doesn't take long until he's whimpering and coming all over Harold's hand, slumped against Harold's chest. Harold holds him there, rubbing John's shoulders and stroking his hands down John's spine.

John is dimly aware that time passes, but he can't tell if it's early evening or the middle of the night. At some point, Harold undresses and lies down in bed with John, curls up with him and holds him close. John feels like he is about to cry again, so he just hides his face against Harold's throat and lets the tears come while Harold is cuddling him.

Harold doesn't ask anything, and doesn't try to make John talk. It makes a warmth spread from the center of John's chest all through his body, the knowledge that Harold reads him so well, understands what John needs even when John doesn't have the words to tell him.

The desperate sobbing has stopped, and John sinks into the comfort of the embrace: the warmth of Harold's skin, the feeling of Harold's hands wrapping him up in the sheets, the bone-deep security of the little warm nook he is curled up in.

Later Harold cleans John up and rubs lotion into his sore skin, makes him sit up to offer him sips of water from a plastic bottle.

“You've done so well, my dearest,” Harold says, and the praise feels like a warm blanket wrapped around John's shoulders.

John feels almost weightless. He wishes that he had the words to describe the intense relief he feels to Harold, communicate his gratitude. Harold runs his thumb over the corner of John's mouth and then leans in to kiss John's eyebrow, his temple, his lips.

“You don't have to be alone. You can come home with me whenever you want,” Harold says, stroking the shell of John's ear.

John kisses him instead of answering, and reaches out to squeeze Harold's hand. _Yes._

Harold licks his lips. “Would you like me to select a collar for you?”

John lets his eyes fall shut. “Yes,” he says, his voice rough, and then Harold's hands are on him again, slow and steady, guiding him, giving him purpose.

– fin


End file.
